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I frown. "And?"

Gigi lets out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. "Scar, my brother doesn’t involve me in his personal shit. Ever. If a woman needed clothes, he’d have someone else deal with it—or more likely, he’d send her ass home. But you?" She tilts her head,studying me like she’s already solved the puzzle. "He called me. Had me pick things out for you. That means he cares."

My stomach flips, and my heart picks up speed. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Gigi grins and finishes in a singsong voice. "Face it, Scar. My brother is already yours. So, we'll be sisters."

What a fucking shitshow this was.

Alfonso: dead

His wife: dead

Five Venezuelans: dead

Ricci: dead

I throw the whiskey back, revel in the burn down my throat, and hold the empty glass out to Vito to fill it up again. As if the devil is in high gear today, my phone rings.

"Don Edoardo," I answer. My eyes meet Vito’s; neither of us bears the bastard any love. “What did I do to deserve the honor of you calling me?" My voice is dripping with sarcasm, and I'm sure Edoardo hears it, too.

"Don't play coy, DeLuna. Why is Matías calling and cursing me?" Edoardo's voice sounds over the speaker. Vito arches a brow in mock surprise over Edoardo, almost sounding like a Don.

"Why don't you ask the fucking Venezuelans why they kidnapped and tortured my accountant and his wife?" I don't even try to keep the disgust from my voice.

"Your accountant?"

"My fucking accountant, yes," I repeat, adding, just in case he's as stupid as I think he is, "the same guy who cooks our books. As inallour books. You might want to askMatíashow much information he got out of Alfonso while they raped and tortured his wife right in front of him."

"Shit, I?—"

I don't give him time to finish his sentence, "As the Don of this family, you should have a serious word with that asshole, before he either rats us out to the feds or hacks our accounts."

"You don't give me orders, DeLuna," Edoardo spits.

Vito mouths,uh oh you're in deep shit now. And I mime shooting him with my forefinger.

"I'm not giving you orders,Don Edoardo. I'm simply counseling you on what to do since you seem in dire need of it."

Now Vito raises his eyebrows and shakes his head while making a time-out motion with his hands, but I'm done playing games with the kid. His lackluster leadership might cost all of us a lot of money. I have no idea what information Matías got out of Alfonso, but right now, I have to assume the worst-case scenario, which means it's time for some serious damage control.

"I'll be back in two hours. Call the others; we need to meet," I say before I disconnect the call.

"Was that wise?" Vito asks.

"Probably not," I say, downing another three fingers of whiskey, "but it felt fucking good. That little fucking prick!"

Vito refills my glass. I run my hand through my hair, "Fuck!"

He nods, fully aware of the implications. When we got there, Alfonso's wife was already dead, and Alfonso was as good as. We killed five Venezuelans, including Ricci, slowly, but none of the fuckers talked, at least nothing that helped us. I hated putting a bullet through Alfonso's head, but he wasn't of any further use to us as broken as he was. Everybody would know soon enough that he sang; there was no way to keep him alive. It would send the wrong message.

At least it was quick for him.

For the others, not so much.

We mixed up their body parts and sent them to Matías; he could figure out which part belonged to whom or just burn the entire mess. I shrug, no sweat off my back. I have bigger problems right now.

As the family's money launderer, I have access to all kinds of sensitive financial information, and so did Alfonso. He didn't know names, thank fuck, every name in the books was encrypted, and only I have the key, but it still leaves a nice trail for anybody who decides to come sniffing.